


no better love

by redbelles



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Content Warnings in Chapter Notes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Local Idiots in Love; News at 11, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tumblr Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-23 19:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbelles/pseuds/redbelles
Summary: Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird? Surely we can do better than that.Or: Frank and Karen, across every universe.





	1. something so precious about this (where to begin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: flirting under fire + pregnancy. Title from the lovely "From Eden" by Hozier

It’s not how she wanted to tell him. Not like this, with the world on fire around them, hot and red as blood.

All they did was go for a walk— three streets over, heading for the little café she loves so much. 6 pm and she wanted a chocolate croissant. Frank huffed, told her she was ridiculous, then held her jacket so she could shrug into it, a silent reassurance that he didn't really mind. Pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle in that way of his, the one that always breaks her heart.

He probably kissed Lisa like that: _one more chapter and then it’s lights out, okay baby girl?_

She’s just over two months along, no idea if the spark of a child hidden inside her is a son or a daughter. No idea if this is something Frank can handle, or if this is the thing that finally breaks him. He’s survived so much: bruised, battered, tumbled headlong into a love he still doesn’t think he deserves. That’s— that’s why she’s held it like a secret under her tongue, why she didn’t dare whisper it against his skin while he slept. She’s never wanted to see him shatter.

But now here they are. Frank’s bleeding, red soaking through his clothes to stain her fingers, gunshots echoing around them. She doesn’t know who started firing, or why. All she knows is the dirty concrete, cold against her back, and the weight of Frank's body pinning her there, safety bought with blood. If she weren’t here— if she hadn’t been greedy— he wouldn’t be hunkered over her with ghosts in his eyes.

“Frank. Frank, look at me, please.” He’s looking at her, but he can’t see her. He’s seeing Maria, Lisa, Junior, gone in a hail of bullets

“Frank.” His name comes out like a sob, and that’s what does it. The shadows clear. He cracks a grin for her, a forced, weak thing.

“Ma’am,” he says, and oh, oh, the gentleness is back, the soft gravel of his voice cut by the crack of gunfire. “We have got to stop doin’ this.”

It startles a laugh out of her, thready and sharp. “It’s definitely not my favorite kind of date.”

There are shouts, then the blaring wail of sirens. The gunfire goes abruptly silent. In the quiet left behind, an irate shopkeeper starts yelling about property damage. It’s over. They’re fine.

They’re fine.

Frank’s arm is still bleeding sluggishly, red trickling over her fingers as she covers the wound, pressing down like she can hold him together if she just holds on tight enough.

 _Use two hands_ , he says in her memory.

He goes to ease off of her, but she grabs a fistful of his coat to keep him close. He frowns, confusion twisting his brow, but he stays.

“Wait,” she says, “wait.” God, her voice is so shaky. She swallows, tries again. “Shit—”

“Karen—”

“—I’m pregnant.”

She could blame it on adrenaline, maybe. Fear. Some easy excuse, a reason that explains why the words tumble out of her mouth with no grace at all, frantic and sharply declarative. It’s more complicated than that, though. More real.

He deserves the truth. He’s flung himself in front of bullets for her, faced down a suicide bomber, held her safe when the world turned sharp and dangerous. Come back from the dead for her. If she can trust him with all that, what can’t she trust him with?

He’s silent for a long moment, staring down at her. Her fingers spasm on his coat, so afraid she might have to let go.

“Jesus Christ, Karen,” he says, and then he’s bending down to press a kiss to her temple. Her heart thuds dully against her ribs, but he keeps going. “You couldn’t wait until the bullets stopped flying before givin’ me another heart attack?”

He’s— he’s joking with her. He’s not running; not shutting down.

She makes a show of peering past his shoulders. “ I don’t know, Frank, I’m not seeing any bullets.”

“Semantics,” he says, climbing to his feet. He pulls her up after him, hands gentle, so gentle. and then: “You’re sure?”

Her breath is shaky again, relief and a fizzy, startled joy bubbling up in her chest. “ I’m sure.”

Something cracks open in his expression, something scared and disbelieving and full of wonder. She recognizes the face because it was the same one staring her in the mirror after half a gallon of orange juice and more pregnancy tests than were entirely reasonable. She savors the sight of it, blurry and out of focus through the tears welling up in her eyes, and then Frank is pressing his forehead to hers, breathing, breathing, breathing.

“Both hands,” he says, tears thick in his voice. “Okay?”

The sirens are still wailing, closer now, maybe a block away. Shell casings scattered on the sidewalk, broken glass and that same angry shopkeeper, still railing about property damage. Frank’s blood is drying in tacky streaks across her fingers. His shirt’s probably a lost cause.

She’s never been more sure of an answer in her life.

“Okay.”


	2. stay with me (stay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Frank comes over one day and just… doesn’t leave. Karen isn’t prepared for it, or just doesn’t consider it, but one day they run out of coffee and Frank literally cannot function. Title from "Leather and Lace" by Stevie Nicks and Don Henley

He shows up at her door three months later, flowers in hand, complete with hangdog expression. She shouldn’t let him off the hook so easily, but shouldn’t hasn’t ever really mattered much when it comes to Frank.

“I had no idea The Punisher was so old fashioned.”

“Karen—”

“Just— shut up and come inside.”

Frank may be a goddamn idiot sometimes, but he’s far from stupid. He shuts up and comes inside.

The flowers go in a vase on the coffee table. White roses again, dotted with carnations. He’s either figured out her favorite flower or he’s the luckiest idiot in New York. Probably the former, given how their luck tends to run. It makes her chest ache just thinking about it.

She sets the vase down and turns away before her hands start to shake, fumbling with her phone. The number for Ming Wah Chinese is saved in her contacts. Good thing, because she’s not sure she’d get it right if she tried to dial from memory. She and Frank share approximately half the menu and a beer or two, sitting quietly on her couch.

She stays up as long as she can, until her eyes are gritty and she can’t stifle her yawns, and then she has to call it a night. He stays put as she moves through her nightly routine, scrubbing away the last traces of makeup, wrestling with the toothpaste because she keeps forgetting to buy a new tube; at the end of it, she stands in the doorway to her room, trying to commit the sight of him to memory.

No blood, no bruises. Frank Castle at rest.

She can’t fight down the lump in her throat, but she forces herself to speak around it. She wants to go to bed and pretend he’ll be there in the morning. Wants to pretend he can stay. Three months ago, she might have taken it on faith, trusted him and just— swallowed down the hurt if she was wrong. Now…

_So make it mean something._

He couldn’t. Can’t. Now, she needs ground rules.

“Frank?”

“Mmm?”

“Don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

A grin pulls up the corner of his mouth, ragged and rueful.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, more apology in those two words than she can handle at 11 pm on a Thursday.

Her heart clenches in her chest. This is why she forgives him again and again, her own better judgment be damned; he’d rather face a bullet than offer himself a little kindness. Still, she can’t bring herself to regret it.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night, but when it does, it’s dreamless.

 

...

 

The apartment smells like fresh coffee when she wakes up, the familiar scent drawing her out of bed before her alarm even has a chance to go off.

Frank is leaning against her counter, staring at her janky old coffee maker like he can will it to work faster. He’s nicked the throw blanket off the back of her couch, wrapped it around himself like a shawl. The sight is so unexpected that she bursts out laughing.

He blinks at her like an owl, sleepy and vaguely disgruntled.

“Here,” she says, taking pity on him. She prods the machine with the ease of long practice until it finally starts percolating in earnest.

“Don’t know how you live with that thing,” he mutters, voice raspier than she’s ever heard it.

“I work with a pair of broke lawyers and I freelance as a journalist on the side. You’re lucky I’ve got a working coffee maker at all.

Frank grunts in response, but it’s a familiar sound, fond.

He’s on his second cup when she leaves for work. She can’t quite bring herself to say goodbye—afraid she used up all her luck last night, and this time he’ll take it more literally than she means it—so she takes a page from his book and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. He smells like coffee and apple-scented laundry detergent, the kind she uses because it’s always on sale. From the blanket, no doubt, but it makes her smile all the same.

She carries the smile with her all the way to the office, where it lingers until Foggy gets suspicious and starts asking questions.

“A date, Karen? Snagged your favorite pastry at the deli this morning? The New York Post finally published that retraction you’ve been after? C’mon, spill. What’s got you grinning like a loon over there?”

“Apples,” she says, like that’s a reasonable answer. Matt and his super senses aren’t in yet, so Foggy can’t look to him for back up, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He scoffs and keeps at it, like he can ferret out the secret if he’s just persistent enough.

“It’s no big deal,” she promises, still grinning.

“Denial! That means it’s absolutely a big deal.”

“If the court reporter reads back my remarks, you’ll see I did not—”

“—hey, hey! Don’t you John Mulaney at me, Karen, we’ve talked about this!”

 

...

 

Frank stays.

He comes and goes during the day—either that or groceries have started magically appearing in her fridge—but he stays.

The first weekend is hard, a little awkward. He fumbles through an apology for the way things played out in the hospital, winces when she tells him if he’s making amends he has to make them to Amy and Curtis and probably Madani. He draws the line at Mahoney, and she lets it slide. Brett’s had enough of them for a while; she’ll let Foggy ply him with cigars before they try anything else. Let him get his equilibrium back.

“You scared me,” she admits. “If Amy hadn’t been there, if Dinah and I hadn’t come back in time—”

She breaks off, sucks in a shaky breath. Tries again. “Maybe it was selfish of me to ask you to fight through it, to live with it, but you can’t do that again. You can’t just— lay down and die. You have to promise me you’re past that.”

His eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but he meets her gaze without flinching.

“I’m never gonna be past it, but I’m here.”

He reaches out, cradles her hand between both of his. His palms are warm and callused, achingly familiar. She’s in so goddamn deep.

“That enough of a promise for you, Karen? Because right now that’s all I got.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, that’s enough.”

So he stays.

 

...

 

He’s there when she goes to bed, there when she wakes up. He gripes about her coffee maker, folds the throw with military precision when he’s not wearing it like a cape, and tries to get her to eat something homecooked at least once a week. It’s— nice. More domestic than anything she’s imagined since he burst into her life in a hail of gunfire and graveled promises, but. Nice.

She kisses him on the cheek like ritual now, every morning before she goes to work. He never denies her, never tries to dodge away, but he never takes her up on the implicit invitation. Never turns to meet her halfway, never gives into the mutual ache between them and just— kisses her.

Maybe once upon a time, she’d have pushed, but not now. He’s here; that’s all that matters, really. He’s here, and he’s safe. Anything else is just… wishing. She’s greedy for him, for everything and anything he can give her, but she can live with this.

Still, she leaves the bedroom door open at night, just because. A silent offer, easy enough for him to ignore if it’s too much. And maybe it is, but there’s a part of her that’s always going to hope.

She falls asleep listening to the sound of his breathing, just a room away, and lets herself dream.

 

...

 

A case blows up so badly that she spends a week and a half working past close. It doesn’t bother her—she worked stranger hours at the _Bulletin_ —but when the schedule is finally back to normal, Matt and Foggy (mostly Foggy, let’s be real here) tell her go ahead and take the rest off the week off. Karen’s many things, but she’s not a fool. Desperate for a shower after a night spent at the office, she takes them up on it, breezing out the door just before noon and hailing a cab.

It’s quarter to one by the time she makes it through midday traffic back to her apartment. She still doesn’t really know what Frank does with his days, but if he’s around, she’s thinking maybe a late lunch? She’ll even try her hand at cooking if he’s willing to risk potential food poisoning.

Instead, she walks into her apartment to find Frank sprawled out on the couch, dead asleep. He stirs when she shuts the door, the click of the deadbolt making his eyelids flutter.

“Karen?” he rasps, and her heart beats out of time. Former Spec Ops soldier, comfortable enough in her apartment—safe enough—to let his guard down. To trust that it’s her.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” Her voice is admirably steady.

He makes a pathetic noise and rolls to face her, sleepy and disgruntled.

“Coffee maker’s broken,” he mumbles. The combination of gravel and petulance in his voice is fucking adorable.

“Want me to go take a look?”

She expects him to say yes. She’s already moving toward the kitchen when he reaches out and snags her hand, pulls her close, until she’s directly in front of the couch, struggling against the urge to cradle his face, run her fingers through his stupid fluffy hair.

“Nah,” he says instead, tugging gently at her until she folds herself down onto the couch with him. It’s not a perfect fit, not by any means. Her couch is tiny, and she and Frank are about the same size, give or take some muscle. A lot of muscle. The point is, it’s a squish, but—

She scoots down until she can rest her forehead against the crook of his neck and just breathes, savoring the warmth and the calm, the quiet of the moment.

Frank Castle at peace.

“Nah,” he says again. “Got everything I need right here.”

“Mmm. That so?” It’s a good thing he can’t see her face right now, because the hope on it right now would shatter him. She knows that in her bones.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah, that ah, that open door mean what I think it means?”

“Anything,” she tells him, so honest she nearly chokes on it. “Anything and everything. Whatever you want it to mean.”

His fingers tighten around hers, his other hand moving to stroke down her back, gentle but lingering. Just past this side of platonic. Karen bites at her lip, fighting back a shiver when his hand settles on her hip, warm and full of promise.

“Okay,” he says, all traces of sleep gone, nothing now but heat and smoke.

Still—

“Okay,” she echoes back. Presses a kiss into the skin beneath his jaw, once, twice, three times, then stands, tugging at his hand until he unfolds himself and joins her. She grins, made helpless with delight at the sight of him, whole and safe and hers. “But first, let me show you how to defeat the coffee maker,” she teases. “ I don’t want you falling asleep on m—”

Frank cuts her off mid-word, a sweet kiss that turns sly and filthy halfway through, both of them too hungry for each other to bother going slow.

He’s panting when he breaks away, the corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin as he hoists her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest like it’s nothing.

“All due respect, ma’am,” he says, moving toward that open bedroom door, kicking it shut behind them as soon as he’s across the threshold. “Coffee can wait.”


	3. you ain't a beauty (but hey you're alright)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: pregnant Karen sitting in the bathtub, Frank singing some Boss songs at her in his raspy bluesy voice and it is good. Title and lyrics from "Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen

Her back aches.

That’s her biggest complaint. Not morning sickness, or how she suddenly detests peanut butter, or even how she’s only five months along and bras now qualify as medieval torture devices. Instead, it’s the dull, steady thrum of pain in her lower back that beats at her all day and all night, her body protesting the change in her center of gravity with extreme and abiding fervor.

The only thing that helps is hot water. So: baths. Lots of baths.

Frank helps her into the tub, holding her steady as she steps over the lip and eases herself into the water. It’s a rare quiet afternoon for them both. Ellison’s finally bullied her into taking a break from her freelance work, and Matt and Foggy gave her the week off after she spent a whole half an hour trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable way to sit in her desk chair.

 _Take a break_ , Matt said. _We’ll scrounge up something more ergonomic before you get back._

It’s a testament to how much she hurts that she agreed without a fight.

Frank’s been hitting the streets less and less. It’s good, helps her manage her worry, but the downside is cabin fever like no one’s business. Most days, he disappears in the afternoon to run errands. Groceries, dry cleaning, whatever. He’s back early today though, content just to be close to her, to revel in the unexpected peace of their life together.

He waits until she’s in the water, then steps back to dim the lights the way she always does. She expects him to disappear, but instead, he surprises her by shucking off his clothes. She scooches forward as far as she can, giving him space to settle down behind her. Objectively, the tub is not big enough for both of them. Water sloshes as she leans back against him, little waves cascading down over the side of the tub to soak the bathmat, but she can’t bring herself to care.

His arms come around her, warm and solid, and the ache starts to fade away.

“I got you,” he says, voice a low rumble in his chest. “Go ahead and sleep if you need to.”

“Anti-drowning measures activated,” she jokes, smiling even as she can feel herself giving into the lulling bliss of the hot water. He gives her a quick squeeze because that was a terribly lame joke, then does just what he said he would: holds her safe and lets her drift off to sleep.

She wakes to the sound of singing. 

The water is closer to lukewarm, but she doesn’t care. Frank is tracing up and down her arm with gentle fingers, that bluesy voice of his raspy on a song she knows is one of his favorites. Springsteen, because even colored with memories of Maria, Frank loves the Boss. 

“Like a vision, she dances across the porch as the radio plays.” Karen hums, twisting to press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw so he’ll know she’s awake. He keeps going, the barest hint of a smile creeping into his voice. “Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, hey that’s me and I want you only.”

Her heart thuds in her chest, painfully full. Nothing will ever replace Maria, will ever make up for losing Lisa and Junior, but Frank isn’t living in the past anymore. This, right here, the two of them together in the gentle darkness, this is a new memory. Frank is singing to Karen, singing to their child, to new beginnings and the dream they’re holding onto with both hands.

“You’re a beauty and hey you’re alright—”

She laughs. “Nice try buddy, but I know that isn’t the line.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Mmm,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head. “Well, I’m not dumb enough to sing it right. You ain’t a beauty? Please.” His fingers are still stroking up and down her arm. So much love in every touch.

She reaches up, snags his hand, tangles her fingers with his. Kisses his knuckles, gentle as she can even though they’re free of bruises.

_I love you._

He tightens his grip, keeps singing.

_Love you too, Karen._

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://www.redbelles.tumblr.com), yo! my inbox is always open for prompts :)
> 
> (seriously tho, come cry w/me)


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